Getting political: Gore blasts e-mailers, announces new alternative energy venture

Gore criticizes e-mail users
for ‘carbon copy’ footprint
Plans Second Chakra energy


By Jeff Starck

Disassociated Depress

(TOKYO) – E-mail users need to change their ways, claims Al Gore, chief evangelist of the global warming movement.

The use of the “CC” function in sending e-mail messages is a leading contributor to the phenomenon known as global warming, Gore told reporters at a press conference following a worldwide gathering of global warming action group Keep Our Oxygen Klean.

“It may come as an inconvenient truth, but the wanton use of the ‘carbon copy’ functionality in e-mail messaging has created an untenable situation,” Gore said, at the global conclave. “Those who use the ‘CC’ function, for any reason, are recklessly inflicting harm to our Mother Earth. You may as well stab your momma in the back.”

Between school, work and entertainment, residents of the overdeveloped world use computers an average of 10 hours a day, itself a massive contributor to global warming. But the 230 e-mails that people send daily, on average, is the true culprit.

“I’m sure these messages have filled up your Inbox. Whether it’s racist rhetoric questioning President Obama's heritage, jokes about stupid conservative voters or a chain message claiming Bill Gates will make you rich if you forward e-mails, everyone who uses the ‘CC’ function is to blame,” Gore said.

The harshest e-mails for the environment, Gore said, are those questioning whether global warming actually exists, according to global warming's chief hypocrite, er, messenger.

“I will not let dangerous talk radio spouters like Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck defeat democracy and destroy our Mother,” Gore said. “They’re dastardly defiant refusal to accept what we know about global warming is definitely cause for alarm.”

Because talkers like Limbaugh and Beck have millions of listeners and e-mail subscribers, the impact of their carbon copy footprint is multiplied, according to Gore.

But, there’s a simple remedy concerned citizen soldiers in the global warming army can employ to decrease their carbon copy footprint, Gore said.

“As most of you know, all you have to do is list all the e-mail recipients using the ‘To’ function. This eliminates excess carbon emitted using the carbon copy method,” he said.

For e-mail senders that desire a little privacy, the ‘blind carbon copy’ option will also work, Gore said.

“Because none of the other e-mail recipients can see those listed on the blind carbon copy line, the carbon copy footprint isn’t traceable, and thus doesn’t count,” Gore said.

Following the KOOK gathering, Gore returned to his Montecito, Calif., mansion and began drafting plans for a new venture in alternative energy, tentatively titled Crazed Poodle Industries.

Gore said that homeowners who find a way to tap into their "second chakra" can lower their heating bills by half, mostly offsetting the cost of divorce lawyers that would result by engaging in such carbon-saving activities.

Upon Further Review: A sleeker column about a game of catch

It's often said that we don't appreciate what we have until it's gone, and I concur.
No, this is not some serious dissection of grief for a deceased loved one, but a lament of the folly of my youth, and it involves my first love: baseball.

Nowadays I pay to watch a game I could have been paid to play.

When it comes to athletics, most guys harbor feelings, OK, delusions, of grandeur about their prowess, reliving and retelling their finest hour over and over again, with a little creative editing thrown in for good measure.

I have no such delusions. When it comes to art, I've always said I can't draw stick figures straight, and when it comes to sports, my most frequent position was Left Out. I was perenially the last person chosen, rejected like a side of beef at a PETA banquet.

But I've accepted my lack of ability in most things sports (competitive eating is a sport, after all) and enjoy the recreation they provide in my increasingly middle age.
Delusions of grandeur? Not at all.

See, when I was younger, my twin brother longed to play baseball and other sports, and it was all he could do to interest me. Most times I'd rather sit inside and read a book. And many a time I did.

It was hard to resist the pull of exercise, sweat and bug bites, but I endured.
About the only thing that pulled me out of my cloister was the lure of something fresh and green (and I'm not talking grass stains).

Sometimes, my brother had to pay me.

Whether baseball cards, the always-unkept promise of doing my chores, or just the lure of some crisp spending money, I had a price, thank you very much, and I could be bought cheaply.

On the list of my life's embarrasments, this one ranks right up there with owning a John Mayer CD. And actually enjoying some of it.

It's something I don't share lightly. Like the finance major announcing his career path to a co-ed in Madison or Berkeley, my dirty little secret is whispered, handled in hushed tones and muted conversation.

I, Jeffrey Starck, would have rather read books than go outside and play baseball with my brother. My own flesh and blood. Kin.

That's a funny thing, too, given my baseball roots. As a Starck, I come by it honest. If baseball is a religion in St. Louis (and it most certainly is), then the Starck family ranks right up there with the ecumenical Grahams for religious fervor.

In our family, the question wasn't whether you loved baseball or the Cardinals -- like our love of food, it remains unquestioned -- but the debate came down to who was the best player on the team (my answer was always Ozzie Smith).

Passion for the game is standard issue, one-size-fits-all, when you wear the Starck name, and I am a baseball fan. Whether it unfolds on the grandest stage of the game or plays out as a minor league matchup with guys destined to bounce from town to town for years chasing a young man's dream, I love baseball.

And I love nothing more than that simple game of catch I took for granted as a youngster.

For men of my generation, "catch" has been romanticized by 'Field of Dreams,' with the tidy little ending to a story of a little boy, all grown up, searching for a something to ease his painful heart.

There's a reason it rings true with so many guys, especially those who don't cry. Ever (but their eyes sure do have something awful stuck in 'em when that scene flickers on the screen.)

Catch is mental exercise as much as it is physical, a chance to become removed from the wear-and-tear of the daily grind, to be transported back in time to a big ol' world devoid of deadlines and stress, to trade office politics for classroom politics (does she like me?), and brownie points for brownies.

And today, I just had to get outside and throw the ball around. Take a few hacks, pretend to throw out a would-be thief at the plate and swat the decisive blow. Just throw the ball.

As you might imagine, it is very hard to have a game of catch by yourself. Fetch, maybe, but not catch.

Like a "Guci" hand bag or "Rollex" watch, the activity that I engaged in today was a mere knockoff, an imposter for the real thing.

Maybe you understand my frustration. If so, all I ask is one simple question: wanna have a throw?

Inaugural post: A simple game of catch?

It's often said that we don't appreciate what we have until it's gone, and I concur.
No, this is not some serious dissection of grief for a deceased loved one, but a lament of the folly of my youth. A particular folly, but a youthful one at that, and it involves my first love: baseball.

Nowadays I pay to watch a game I could have been paid to play.

When it comes to athletics, most guys harbor feelings, OK, delusions, of grandeur about their prowess, reliving and retelling their finest hour over and over again, with a little creative editing thrown in for good measure.

I have no such delusions. When it comes to art, I've always said I can't draw stick figures straight, and when it comes to sports, my most frequent position was Left Out. I was perenially the last person chosen, rejected like a side of beef at a PETA banquet.

But I've accepted my lack of ability in most things sports (competitive eating is a sport, I hear) and enjoy the recreation they provide in my increasingly middle age.
Delusions of grandeur? No, that's not it at all.

See, when I was younger, my twin brother longed to play baseball and the million other sporty games that most young boys play.
It was all he could do to interest me, but most times I'd rather sit inside and read a book. And I did, many a time.

It was hard to resist the pull of exercise, sweat and bug bites, but I endured.
About the only thing that pulled me out of my cloister was the lure of something fresh and green (and I'm not talking grass stains).

Sometimes, my brother had to pay me.

Whether baseball cards, the always-unkept promise of doing my chores, or just the lure of some crisp spending money, I had a price, thank you very much, and I could be bought cheaply.

It wasn't much, but then inflation sure has taken its bite out of the ol' dollar.

On the list of my life's embarrasments, this one ranks right up there with owning a John Mayer CD. And actually enjoying some of it.

It's something I don't share lightly. Like the finance major announcing his career path to a co-ed in Madison or Berkeley, my dirty little secret is whispered, handled in hushed tones and muted conversation.

I, Jeffrey Starck, would have rather read books than go outside and play baseball with my brother. My own flesh and blood. Kin.

That's a funny thing, too, given my baseball roots. As a Starck, I come by it honest. If baseball is a religion in St. Louis (and it most certainly is), then the Starck family ranks right up there with the ecumenical Grahams for religious fervor.

In our family, the question wasn't whether you loved baseball or the Cardinals -- like our love of food, it remains unquestioned -- but the debate came down to who was the best player on the team (my answer was always Ozzie Smith).

Passion for the game is standard issue, one-size-fits-all, when you wear the Starck name, and I am a baseball fan. Whether it unfolds on the grandest stage of the game (I went to the 2009 All Star Game, alone, because I had to be there) or plays out as a minor league matchup with guys destined to bounce from town to town for five, seven or 11 years chasing a young man's dream, I love baseball.

And I love nothing more than that simple game of catch I took for granted as a youngster.

For men of my generation, "catch" has been romanticized by 'Field of Dreams,' with the tidy little ending to a story of a little boy, all grown up, searching for a salve to slather on his repentant heart.

There's a reason it rings true with so many guys, especially those who don't cry. Ever (but their eyes sure do have something awful stuck in 'em when that scene flickers on the screen.)

Catch is mental exercise as much as it is physical, a chance to become removed from the wear-and-tear of the daily grind, to be transported back in time to a big ol' world devoid of deadlines and stress, to trade office politics for classroom politics (does she like me?), and brownie points for brownies.

And today, I just had to get outside and throw the ball around. Take a few hacks, pretend to throw out a would-be thief at the plate and swat the decisive blow. Just throw the ball.

But, like the sound made by one hand clapping, it is very hard to have a game of catch by yourself. Fetch, maybe, but not catch.

Like a "Guci" hand bag or "Rollex" watch, the activity that I engaged in today was a mere knockoff, an imposter for the real thing.

Maybe you understand my frustration. If so, all I ask is one simple question: wanna have a throw?